


wasn’t built in a day

by unstuckintime



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, FURIOUS MASTURBATION, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Peter is 18!!!, Peter is the aggressor, Rape/Non-con Elements, Starker, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush, background stucky, basically everybody is happy and alive and lives in avengers tower, non-canon compliant, sexual situations with a minor, the name of this word document on my computer is “im sorry I wrote this”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 08:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15263517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unstuckintime/pseuds/unstuckintime
Summary: Peter files “massive hard-on for Tony Stark” under “things I can’t tell Aunt May.” It’s tied at the top of the list with “I’m Spider-Man” and “I’m responsible for Uncle Ben’s death.”just 6.k of pwp





	wasn’t built in a day

**Author's Note:**

> if y’all want specific warnings just dm me

Peter doesn’t remember when it started.

Or, yeah he does, but it must have been there before and he just hadn’t realized.

You didn’t, he reasons, just suddenly want someone to fuck you out of the blue one afternoon.

Or maybe you did. Maybe dick-in-the-ass really was built in a day- he’ll see himself out now.

The point is, the precipitating event was easy to pinpoint, but the precipitating factors were harder to pin down. Murky.

How many moments, glances, breaths- did it take to start wanting somebody?

He guesses it might have happened before he’d even met Mr. Stark.

Michelle had a beat up old poster of Iron Man in her bedroom, Tony Stark standing with his helmet off and cradled under one arm.

There were bald eagles and an American flag waving behind him. Tony looked very tragic and noble and handsome, and his jaw was sharp enough to cut granite.

“Isn’t that the most fucking hysterical thing you’ve ever seen?” Michelle had asked.

“Oh,” Peter had said, tearing his eyes away from the white sliver of Stark’s neck visible above the suit, “yeah, hilarious.”

So maybe Tony Stark coming into his bedroom and locking the door was only fertilizer on the seed that shitty poster had planted.

Whatever it was, he hadn’t consciously realized it until-well.

-

They wake Peter up on a Saturday-a Saturday- finding him at Ned’s house where he’d spent the night. Agent Hill comes to the door and says in her sweetest voice that Peter is needed now-now thank you- and so Peter stumbles out into the grey morning, bleary eyed, in X-Men pajamas.

There’s a Range Rover idling on Ned’s street, one wheel straddling the curb of Ned’s front lawn.

Maria ducks her head down towards him and says “We brought you a suit,” out of the side of her mouth, and Peter grins.

He comes around the far side of the car with the hood of his jacket up and pops the door open.

“I told you,” Tony Stark is snapping at whoever is in the driver’s seat, “he won’t fit! There’s nowhere for him to sit. If one of us could just find another way-”

 “-and I told you,” Fury spits, angling around to jab a finger in Tony’s face, “there is no other way in. Now get the kid in the goddamn car before I come back there and make room myself!”

Mr. Stark whirls around and grabs Peter by the arm, hauling him into the Range Rover and sending him sprawling over Stark’s thighs. The car door slams behind him and Fury puts the Rover in gear, peeling off the curb and into the street.

“Now what did I tell you?” Fury says, “There’s room.”

“C’mon kid, get up, you can sit by me.”

That’s Cap, gently taking him by shoulder and helping him lever into a seated position.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Tony says, and seizes him by the waist, yanking him back towards Tony’s side.

“He can’t sit by you, I’m sure sitting on your lap is like popping a squat on steel.”

“Jesus Tony,” Nat makes a face, “it’s five AM.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Mr. Stark squawks, “I just meant he’s so built! Like-you know, his muscles are rock hard-”

Hawkeye makes a gagging noise.

They’re all in pajamas. Natasha’s hair is perfect, of course, but the rest of them- Tony, Steve, and Clint- look like they’ve been drug through rough terrain by their feet. Steve’s crew cut is pointing five different directions.

“Why do you always have to make things dirty-” Tony says plaintively, “in front of the kid? I compliment a man on his muscled physique and you take it somewhere I obviously didn’t mean-”

“You said sitting on Cap would make you ‘rock hard,’” Clint points out.

“I never said that!-”

“Oh,” Clint says, frowning, “I must have misread your lips-”

“Be quiet!” Fury roars, jerking the wheel and sending them wheeling into the far lane of the freeway for emphasis.

Peter slides down Tony’s thighs and into his lap. Tony, crammed into too-tight sweatpants and clearly overheated in the cramped car, fans himself. Peter might as well be sitting on a seat warmer.

He grabs the chicken handle and pulls himself back to towards Tony’s knees.

The guy Fury cut-off blips his horn and Maria gives him the finger.

“Fill spider boy in before I throw all of you out and finish this mission by myself.”

“It’s Sp-Spider-Man, sir,” Peter manages.

“I don’t care one single fucking iota what your name is-”

Basically the bad guys have a hide-out in the countryside somewhere up in Maine. They’re an unusually technologically advanced outfit of Hydra; one of their engineers has rigged up some type of sky and ground scanners. It’s good equipment-no machinery gets in or out without setting off an alarm- nothing by air and nothing coming up the lone dirt road that leads to the compound. That means Iron Man and the Quinjet are useless.

The plan, as far as Peter can tell, is to drive the Avengers close enough and then just have everyone walk up on the outfit and attack. Tony will stay with the car and try to disable the scanners remotely.

“So why do you need me?” Peter asks.

Cap and Natasha exchange a look.

“This is kind of uh-a training exercise for you,” Cap says cautiously.

“Yeah, to-to test you in the field,” Tony says, from somewhere around Peter’s left elbow.

“Not that we don’t know how well you perform...in the field.”

“Yeah,” Clint nods.

Clint and Cap peer at him earnestly.

“Oh,” Peter says, “cool!”

He realizes they’d expected him to be annoyed, pulled out of bed on a Saturday for what amounts to Avengers practice.

He isn’t, though.

He’s fought with them a couple times, met everyone, gone to a few of the dinner parties Tony’s thrown at Avengers tower. He knows he isn’t one of the team yet. This is… good. This feels like being second string, but making it out onto the court.

“Thanks for thinking of me, guys, I’m excited to be here,” he says.

Natasha’s face doesn’t change but she reaches over and pats his knee.

A few hours later and he’s less excited to be here.

The steady hum of the car has lulled him into a drowse and he’s nodding off against the car window.

At some point Natasha had shucked off her seatbelt and curled up across Clint’s thighs. Clint had caught Peter’s eye and signed ‘C-A-T’. Now his hand was in her perfect hair and he was snoring with his mouth open.

The highway dumps them out into a loosely paved frontage road and after a couple of miles Fury wrestles the Rover onto a dirt path threading off into waving golden fields.

The car gives a grinding lurch when it hits gravel and Peter is jerked into consciousness and into Mr. Stark’s chest in one fell swoop.

“Jesus,” Tony says, starting awake.

His fingers reflexively splay on Peter’s rib cage, steadying him. Nat sits up and runs a hand through her curls.

The SUV isn’t so much driving as it is thumping along, like all its tires have been shot out.

“Fuck, give a guy a warning will ya?” Tony growls.

“Hey Stark,” Fury says, eyes on the road, “we’re leaving the highway.”

Peter tries to shift off Mr. Stark’s lap but the Rover is bouncing too violently for him to get any purchase.

He’s close to Tony, really close. Intimate close, and Peter hasn’t really been in any adult’s personal space in a while.

He’s been shrugging off Aunt May’s hugs for a the past few months- half scared she’s going to step back and politely inquire where that six pack came from young man, and half convinced he’s too old for hugs regardless.

He feels jumpy and awkward, like his limbs have grown too long and become suddenly ungraceful.

Maybe worse than all that is badly he wants to relax into Mr. Stark’s body.

A week ago in debate Peter and Ned had been sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall. Peter had called out some answer or something funny, he doesn’t remember, and Ned had laughed, pleased with him, and reached out and ruffled Peter’s hair. Entirely involuntarily Peter had made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a sigh and hum.

Michelle, slumped in a desk and close enough to hear, looked at him over her shoulder.

“Somebody’s touch starved,” she had said and laughed, not unkindly, but Peter had gone pink and humiliated anyway.

He wanted to be touched and he was embarrassed that he wanted it. He didn’t know how to keep the contentment out of his face; he was afraid if someone touched him affectionately they’d see how desperate he was for it to continue.

Peter holds himself stiff.         

“We’re on this road for five miles and I have to go slow, so everybody deal with it, okay?” Fury snaps.

“Is now a bad time to say I have to use the bathroom?” Clint stage whispers.

‘Don’t antagonize him’, Nat signs.

Peter finds an acceptable position, and the ride is okay, for a little while.

Mr. Stark’s lap isn’t a terrible place to be overall, even if Peter is being jostled around so much he’s afraid his brain might come lose and start banging around inside his skull.

He’s thinking the guy who invented the seatbelt might have been on to something.

Still, he’s been in tighter spots.

Then Fury hits a rock and the car lurches so Peter’s knocked even further onto Tony. His back is flush with Tony’s chest.

 Peter automatically spreads his legs so he can sit straddling Mr. Stark’s thighs. He doesn’t even try to shift back up Mr. Stark’s legs; Peter can recognize a losing battle when he sees one.

It’s the most comfortable he can get considering the circumstances, but he’s being thrown again and again, up and down up and down and-

He feels Mr. Stark’s dick twitch against his ass.

Peter freezes.

The car continues to thud along and suddenly Mr. Stark is hard. Peter can tell.

The fabric of his pajama bottoms are way too thin and Peter can feel everything.

Tony breathes out hard through his nose. A messy jerky breath, like he wants to curse.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Mr. Stark’s hands come up and stop, inches from Peter’s hips. He’s considering. Grabbing Peter by the hips, which is problematic, or by the thighs, which is worse. Moving him, potentially drawing attention to Tony’s…problem if Peter hasn’t noticed, and if he has, touching him is out of the question anyway.

Fury hits a couple more bumps in the road and Peter feels his body rock hard into Tony’s lap.

Mr. Stark breathes out a hiss and grabs the car door’s handle, white knuckling it.

Peter is- he doesn’t know what he is. He likes Mr. Stark. He’s a handsome guy. Peter’s noticed, of course he has. He’s spent enough time around what Aunt May would call “grade-A beef” to know when a guy is good-looking.

So, yeah, Tony is attractive.

Tony, whose eyes are almond and dark and whose mouth is sharp and soft and sometimes both at the same time and who gives Peter this feeling, when he smiles at Peter or touches his hair, like Peter is made of gold or something even more precious than that-

 

Mr. Stark’s dick throbs and he breathes out hot against Peter’s neck and Peter’s stomach clenches.

Without even trying to, he thinks about Mr. Stark putting his hands on Peter’s thighs and running them up to Peter’s crotch, touching him there through his pants, rubbing him off. How warm his hand would be, the heat radiating through the thin cotton of Peter’s pajama bottoms. How his mouth would feel on Peter’s neck- his tongue, his teeth-

And suddenly, Peter’s hard. Totally, completely hard.

He can’t move, he can’t give himself away but god- if Mr. Stark just put his hands on Peter’s hips and moved him just a little, if he started grinding on Peter’s ass, he could get off right there like that. To Peter. To the feel of Peter on top of him.

Peter feels his dick jump in his underwear.

Fuck, he’s like-wet in a car full of Avengers- to the thought of Tony rubbing one out with Peter in his lap.

He wants to touch himself so bad. He wants Mr. Stark to reach into his pants and jerk him off- it wouldn’t even take much, just a stroke or two and Peter would be there.

He stifles a whimper with a little cough.

Mr. Stark’s palm lands at Peter’s lower back and propels him with one hard shove up Mr. Stark’s thighs and out of his lap. His hands go to Peter’s hips and hold him in place.

It’s all Peter can do not to squirm. He twists his neck around to look and sees Mr. Stark steadfastly staring out the car window. His cheeks are flushed. He resolutely avoids looking at Peter.

-

The mission goes well. Tony doesn’t quite meet his eyes for the next couple of days, but after that it’s back to the status quo. They’re firmly back in father figure territory, no harm no foul.

Except, not really. Because it’s too late for Peter. It’s become A Thing.

He tries to fight it. He really does.

Sometimes people get hard to weird shit. No big thing! He’s cool.

It’s good.

It’s not good.

He can’t jerk off without thinking about Tony. He can’t watch porn without thinking about Mr. Stark doing this or that thing to Peter -or even better- Peter doing it to Mr. Stark. On his knees. On a countertop. In the kitchen. In a car. In Avengers Tower. Mr. Stark’s lab.

One day he’s in a comic book shop with Ned and he sees an Iron Man poster on sale and instantly gets a semi. He’s masturbating to Tony so often it’s like a Pavlovian response. He buys the poster and sticks it up in his room and that night jams his fingers in his mouth and jerks himself off staring at Iron Man so hard he goes cross-eyed.

He can’t do anything about it.

He knows Tony doesn’t want him, that what happened in the car was an accident of friction. Tony wouldn’t touch him while he was underage, even if he did want Peter. Which he doesn’t.

Besides all of that, Mr. Stark loves Pepper. Loves her so much. The glow that comes over Mr. Stark when he talks about Pepper makes the bones in Peter’s chest feel jumbled up, like they’ve all been turned outward –white spikes.

Peter just...keeps it to himself.

He fights crime, he goes to school, he tries not to think about Tony when he takes pretty girls on dates and kisses them in the back seat of his Aunt’s car. He tries not to think about Tony when he and Ned sneak into a club in the city and a pretty boy throws Peter up against a wall and kisses him.

When he’s 17, Mr. Stark invites him to come live in Avengers Tower. He’s part of the team now, Tony says, and he has a room if he wants it. Aunt May is a big fan of that TV show about people moving into tiny homes, and, wine drunk, tells Peter she wants one of her own. Peter moves out the next week and Mr. Stark wires some money into Aunt May’s account.

Now he’s just a Quinjet flight away from a visit with Aunt May in whatever state she’s driven her converted school-bus-tiny-home into this month.

Living a floor up from Mr. Stark is Peter’s own personal hell. Tony shuffles in for lunch shirtless and wet from a shower. He falls asleep in the Tower’s theater in the seat next to Peter, face open and gorgeous in the dim light. He’s sparring with Cap in the gym and mopping sweat out of his eyes.

“Wanna go, kid? I’ll take you down,” he says, and Peter has to swallow a frustrated scream.

Two months after Peter moves in, Pepper and Tony start fighting. A lot. And bad, screaming, sobbing fights. About how Tony is going to get himself killed, how shitty a foundation for a relationship that is, about how Tony isn’t responsible for the whole world.

“But I am,” Tony says hands, outstretched, pleading, “can’t you see that?”

One night they start going really bad, a little after three AM.

Peter ducks into Cap’s room and announces, “Mom and dad are fighting again.”

Two lumps in the bed stir. Cap’s dandelion blonde head pops out from under the covers.

“Oh Peter,” he says, sounding a little breathless, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Bucky flings back the comforter and throws daggers at Peter with his eyes.

“Why did you come in.”

“Oh uhh,” Peter says and shrinks back towards the door.

The muffled sound of Pepper sobbing and yelling through her tears reaches them all at once.

Cap sighs and climbs out of bed.

“I’ll be back. Stay here, Peter,” he says, and pads out into the hall.

Bucky stares at Peter and Peter tries to avoid eye contact.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll strangle you to death with your webbing.”

“Oh,” Peter says, “uhhh, fair enough?”

Bucky grunts like this is an acceptable response and lies back down, scrolling through a phone he pulls from thin air.

Five minutes later, Cap returns looking pinched and tired. He beckons Peter into the hall.

“Okay,” he says, “they’re going to move the yelling into Tony’s lab. You should be able to sleep now.”

Before Peter can tell him that’s not why he’d come to find Cap -that Peter had already been awake, that he just wanted someone to step in tell him everything was going to be okay, that the bags under Tony’s eyes like fresh bruises would eventually fade, that Pepper would stop bursting into tears at odd intervals- Cap puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“Listen,” he says and looks down the hallway almost bashfully, “what you saw there. Bucky and I. I mean.”

He blushes. “It’s-it’s new. And it’s good. And I mean, we’re not ready to tell anyone yet? We’re not sure what-well. We just want it between us for right now, is that okay?”

He squints nervously at Peter’s face.

“Oh I know,” Peter says, “Bucky told me already.”

Cap frowns. “What? He did?”

The door to his bedroom slides open and Cap steps through.

“Buck,” he is saying anxiously when the door closes on him, “what did you say to Peter-”

Tony and Pepper break up the next day. Mr. Stark takes a bottle of bourbon down to his lab and disappears for a week. The shadows under his eyes lengthen and new lines appear around his mouth. He drifts around the Tower like a badly kempt ghost.

“He needs a project,” Clint says when he catches Peter staring forlornly at Mr. Stark’s back.  

Peter sits on this comment and then corners Tony in the kitchen one morning to tell him he wants his 18th birthday party to be prodigious. 

“I want like, uhhh...elephants! And Shaquille O’Neal! And a cake that looks like a giant spider.”

“Yes,” Natasha says, reaching around Peter to grab a box of cereal. “Two spider cakes. One is a black widow.”

“You want two spider cakes?” Tony says, grinning for what feels like the first time in weeks, “I’ll get you three.”

-

The days leading up to Peter’s party involve a lot of packages mysteriously appearing in the loading bay of Avengers Tower and then disappearing just as rapidly as they came. The whole team starts grinning knowingly around him, and once even Bucky elbows him in what Peter hopes is a comradely manner.

Tony is in full host mode, flitting around, pointing decorators left and right. He’s actually getting dressed in the mornings now, and Peter thinks he might have finally shaved.

Peter can get a rise out of him again, which he does as frequently as he’s able. His new favorite game involves woeful attempts to sneak past Mr. Stark and into the conference room where all of Peter’s gifts are being kept. Tony catches him and does a big exaggerated blow-up every time- pretending like he doesn’t know Peter’s doing it for the attention. 

“Get out of here kid! I’m serious this time. No-no do not touch that tray, Peter.”

“Aw, c’mon Mr. Stark. It’s my birthday!”

“It is your birthday and you can have whatever you want-but not while the adults are working. I’ve got some cheerleaders on the line and they need all of my attention.”

He slips Peter a canape and shepherds Peter away from the fray, but he’s laughing when he does it.   

            -

The party is in full swing. All Peter can think is that Tony has certainly delivered.

There’s dancing girls, and members of the New York Mets, and every type of candy imaginable. Tony has tricked out the entire common area- brought in a full bar (that Peter is Not Allowed to patron) and a dance floor, slung streamers from the rafters, and rigged up a net that dumped about a million blue and red balloons on Peter when he blew out the candles on his birthday cake. There are indeed three spider cakes, and four chocolate fountains, and three hundred spider cupcakes. Peter gets the keys to a brand new Jeep. Natasha gives him a leather jacket. Clint hands him a piece of paper that says “COUPON FOR THREE BOW AND ARROW LESSONS. To be redeemed at a time when Dashing Professional Archer deems fit and Nothing Else Better is going on.”

Mr. Stark just up and disappears midway through the party, right when all of the other Avengers are quickly progressing from tipsy to drunk. Clint is drinking directly from a bottle of champagne and arm-wrestling a cackling Bucky. Thor-who had shown up uninvited and wrapped Peter in a bone crushing hug-is gyrating on the dance floor to 80s ballads with an amused Banner.

Peter sidles up to Natasha at the bar.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself, birthday boy. It’s midnight. How does it feel to be eighteen?”

“Fine,” Peter says, shuffling his feet, “I guess.”

Nat quirks a brow.

“I just thought, I’d, you know, be happier about it.”

Tony couldn’t even bother to stay for the whole party. Peter hates it, feeling like Mr. Stark eclipses his whole sky and he’s not even a speck in Tony’s.

Natasha hums in thought.

“Wanna drink about it?”

“What?”

She reaches over the bar and grabs a bottle of vodka by its neck.

“You’re eighteen,” she says, as if that’s an explanation in and of itself.

“Do you know your limits?”

She presses the bottle into Peter’s hands.

“Uh…yeah,” he says, slightly stunned.

“Better start testing them then,” she says, and grins like a shark.

Peter starts drinking. Slowly at first, but once all his taste buds burn off gulping the vodka down gets easier. The room grows fuzzy and hilarious to Peter. Strangers lose their unapproachability. The music drifts through Peter’s head like sweet smelling smoke. The alcohol goes through him like swallowing a firework. He feels warm all the way down, in his toes, his fingertips, his…uh.

He decides, though it’s more like an idea he’d already been set on but had briefly forgotten, to find Mr. Stark. 

-

Thor cracks Mjolnir against the floor and announces, “I hear by declare Peter Parker the god of spiders” to much uproarious applause. Peter stumbles searchingly through crowds of people who pat his back and congratulate him- he guesses on making it to eighteen? Natasha has stolen the black widow cake and is sitting with it balanced on her knees. Clint is eating the spider’s legs off with a spoon. They wave at him as he goes by.

“Does anyone,” he has to shout to be heard over the pulsing bass, “-has anyone seen Mr. Stark?”

“What?” Sam shouts at him. He has a little gob of black widow icing at the corner of his mouth.

“To-ny Sta-rk,” he shrieks, over-enunciating and accidentally spraying Sam with spit.

Sam wipes at his face with the sleeve of his button up and points down the hallway to the guest suites. 

Peter slouches down the hallway, running his hands along the wall for support. The corridor is beyond black, new and improved darkness-this time with less visibility than ever before!- and Peter can barely see a foot in front of his face. Starbursts of white and orange are exploding in front of his vision-are his eyes open or closed? The party is thumping through the walls behind him.

He’s just begun to hear soft wet noises when he smashes face first into a wall, and the wall grunts.

A bright light shines straight into Peter’s eye sockets and he claps his hands over his face.

“Aaah!” Peter yells.

“How does he always find us?” a surly voice hisses. “It’s like he’s a make-out homing pigeon.”

“Shhh. Peter, are you alright?”

Peter’s temporary blindness has begun to abate. Cap is standing in front of him, holding an iPhone up to illuminate the hall. The iPhone’s lock screen is a photo of Bucky brandishing a Captain America doll and smiling shyly, like the expression is a new one for him and is face isn’t quite used to making it yet.

The real Bucky is a step away from Cap, arms crossed and hair kiss-mussed.

“Sorry guys!” Peter yelps. “Sorry, don’t mind me, j-j-ust passing through, you know, it’s my party gotta make sure of ssstuff-”

“Peter, are you drunk?”

Cap takes a concerned step towards him and Bucky’s frowning reaches a new peak.

“No-no it’s his birthday, you heard him-he’s just passing through.” Bucky reaches for Steve’s arm and backs him into the wall, fingers straying to Cap’s belt loops.

“ _You’re_ definitely drunk,” Steve says, voice low. He’s looking at Bucky’s mouth and swallowing hard.

Bucky makes a shooing motion behind his back. Peter ducks past them.

“You love me,” he hears Bucky say behind him, and then there’s the bright, delighted sound of Steve’s laugh, and then nothing anymore.

Peter slips into the closest room and shuts the door behind him. He’s in one of the tower’s many guest bedrooms, reserved for visiting heroes, diplomats, or anyone Tony jovially invites to “come hang out.”

When his eyes adjust to the gloom, he realizes the closet door is slightly ajar. Dim light illuminates the crack between the hardwood floor and the door. Peter’s just about to forget the whole thing when he registers movement from inside the closet. There’s a sloshing sound.

Peter slides open the closet and finds Mr. Stark halfway through a bottle of bourbon. His tie is crumpled in the corner and there’s a miserable set to his mouth. He doesn’t look terribly surprised to see Peter.

“Cheers to eighteen,” he says, lifting the bottle in a half-hearted salute. “Just sixty more years to go ‘til you croak.”

“That’s a generous estimate,” Peter says, closing the door behind him. His hands, now clammy, almost slip on the latch. 

Tony grins through a long pull from the bottle.

“Sorry I couldn’t stay for the party, kid. Just. All those happy people, well-you are one of them, and I’m.”

He falls silent and _thunks_ his head back against the wall.  His hands make a gesture indicative of a shrug.

“Well,” Peter says, looking at Tony’s feet, “I wouldn’t go that far.” There’s a pause.

“Christ I’m an idiot. Here, I shouldn’t-but here.”

People forgot about Uncle Ben. Peter put on a good show- nothing worse than the clumsy pity of a bunch of high schoolers- and people forgot that half of his world had bled out in Peter’s hands. They forgot Peter wasn’t a golden child, a stranger to pain. 

Mr. Stark holds the bottle out to Peter and Peter takes it. He gets a funny little jolt when he puts his mouth where Tony’s was and takes a sip.

The bourbon goes down easier and yet somehow worse than the vodka did. He coughs and Mr. Stark laughs.

“This isn’t going to be a regular thing, just to be clear. We can’t have two drunks in the tower.”

Peter nods.

For a while they just pass the bottle back and forth in mostly companionable silence. Tony’s face looks soft in the low light, he looks younger than Peter’s ever seen him. His shirt is open at the throat. He seems stripped down somehow. Vulnerable. Peter wants him more than anything, beyond hope or reason. He’s well and truly trashed now. 

“You’re in the closet,” Peter says slurring, “me too.”

Tony squints at him. “Uh, yeah. Wait. Oh no, is this like a-a coming out moment? Because if so I am not equipped to handle it.”

 Peter shakes his head hard enough to make himself dizzy again. “No, nono, it’s not. I mean, it can be. I like guys.” His voice squeaks and it comes out sounding a lame. Not at all the dramatic confession he’s more or less fantasized about for the last year and a half. God, he’s an idiot. 

 “Oh,” Tony says looking bemused, “just guys?”

 “No,” Peter scratches his nose and looks away. “Girls, too. I guess. I think?”

Mr. Stark nods contemplatively, clearly deciding to just go with it. “Me too. I mean, I’m not opposed to helping a guy out, you know.”

He frowns at the bottle of bourbon, like he’s said too much and is placing the blame at Jim Beam’s feet.

“Oh, cool,” Peter manages, as if that didn’t go straight to his dick. His head swims. There’s a moment, too brief to be conscious of, in which his mind and body decide _fuck it_ simultaneously.

He steps forward, right into Tony’s space and braces himself against the wall with one hand.

“Mr. Stark,” he says his voice coming out high and breathy, “do you think you could help _me_ with something?”

Their proximity is doing something to him. He’s hot, so hot. From the alcohol and from how close he is to Tony now. His arm is brushing Mr. Stark’s. He feels like he’s coming out of his skin or going crazy, and he’s so drunk this seems like a good idea. He takes the bottle from Tony’s hand and their fingers brush. He drops it into the carpet.

“Help you...?”

Mr. Stark starts and breaks off with a strangled noise when Peter leans in and bites his earlobe.

“Jesus, what are you _unhh_ -”

Peter boxes him in with his hands and rolls his pelvis into Tony’s, so Mr. Stark can’t miss how hard he is. Peter doesn’t even know when he got hard.    

“Fuck-” Tony doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, “you’re drunk.”

He tries to shove Peter away, but Peter won’t move. His mind is blown out-he’s just a thing that wants. He threads a hand into Tony’s hair and moves his mouth to the pulse in Tony’s throat. He scrapes his teeth across it, and then sucks under Tony’s jaw. Peter hears a click when Mr. Stark clenches his teeth. The stubble on Tony’s neck rasps against Peter’s chin and Peter forces a thigh between Mr. Stark’s legs and thrusts into him, rocking up and down on his toes.

Tony’s cock twitches against the seam of Peter’s jeans. He’s getting hard.

“Please, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers, “pleasepleaseplease, I need you I-”

Tony groans and Peter blunders on, “Please, I want you to help me out. Please, just help me out.”

He drags his tongue down Tony’s throat and then takes Tony’s wrist and pulls it to waistband of his shorts.

“Don’t,” Mr. Stark gasps, “don’t-” He tries to pull away but Peter is stronger than him.

“Please, please, please,” Peter begs, “you said, you said it’s my birthday and I can have whatever I want-this is what I want.”

“This isn’t what I meant,” Tony says but Peter grinds into him and

Tony gasps and jerks his face away. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Please, Mr. Stark, please.”

 Some of the tension goes out of Tony’s arm and he lets Peter guide his wrist into his shorts and underwear. Peter takes his slack hand and presses it against his dick. It’s so hot Peter moans at the contact.

Tony says “Oh- _fuck_ ,” like he’s choking.

His hand curls around Peters cock and tugs gently. Peter groans loud, he can’t help it, and Tony hisses through his teeth.

“Harder, like-like this,” Peter says and turns around so his back is to Mr. Stark’s front. Tony readjusts his grip and makes a tiny noise when Peter experimentally thrusts his ass into Tony’s crotch. He starts stroking Peter in earnest, palm rough and sliding up Peter’s length, over the head and back down to squeeze the base of his dick. Fucking flawless technique, of course.

Peter makes a sound like a sob and Mr. Stark clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Shh, birthday boy,” he says in Peter’s ear, sounding wry- _wrecked_.

Peter sticks his tongue out and licks across Tony’s hand.

Tony bends his middle finger in and Peter takes it into his mouth and sucks.

“Fuck,” Tony hisses again.

He grinds hard into Peter and then with every stroke pulls Peter’s hips back so he’s bouncing his ass on Tony’s dick. Peter keeps trying to moan around the finger in his mouth.

“God you’re so-this is so-” Mr. Stark buries his face in Peter’s neck and Peter feels the scrape of his goatee against his jaw.

It’s too much- the smell, the salt taste of Tony’s skin on his tongue, the way Tony’s fisting his dick like he’s trying to wring Peter out.

“Oh, Mr. Stark, please, please,” Peter whines, muffled.

He’s squirming, trying to get more, more touch, more heat, just more, please-

“Jesus-cum for me kid, c’mon cum, kid. I know you’re so close-”

Tony uses the hand over his mouth to pull Peter’s head back so it thumps against Tony’s shoulder. He adjusts his grip, craning his neck around to bite hot at Peter’s throat. Peter feels the cock against his ass jump and Tony grinds into him again, long, hard.

“C’mon, baby, cum. Cum, _Peter_ -” and oh, that’s it.

Peter cums and it feels like he’s cumming forever, mind burned out except for a kind of wah-wah siren screech of _Mr. Stark-Mr. Stark-Mr. Stark_.

They’re both gasping for air, panting in tandem. Peter feels Mr. Stark’s chest expanding and contracting against his back.

Tony pulls his hand out of Peter’s pants and Peter turns around.

Tony is pressed flat to the wall, one hand up and dripping.

The hand that was over Peter’s mouth has fallen to Peter’s hip, but it’s hesitant, like Tony isn’t sure if he should be touching him there or not. His pupils are blown and he looks dazed-almost distraught, but not there yet.

Peter holds eye contact, takes his wrist and brings it to his mouth. He licks the cum off Tony’s palm and Mr. Stark makes a noise like Peter’s punched him in the stomach.

He grabs Peter by the hair and then they’re kissing, and Tony’s tongue is in his mouth and his teeth are on Peter’s lip and god, god.

Mr. Stark’s arms crush him close. His dick pushes into Peter’s thigh.

Mr. Stark is kissing and kissing him. He coaxes Peter’s tongue into his mouth and then sucks it so hard it makes Peter’s toes curl and he has to shove against Tony’s chest to get him to stop. Peter is breathing in little gasping whimpers like he’s wounded.

Tony pulls up Peter’s shirt and bends down to kiss his stomach and Peter laughs and pets at his hair, but then he’s pushing Peter’s shirt up higher and circling one of his nipples with his tongue and Peter isn’t laughing anymore.

“Oh,” he says, “oh,” and grabs at Tony’s collar and the back of his neck. He didn’t know his nipples were hotwired to his dick so he feels it all the way down. 

“ _Unh_ you like that?” Mr. Stark’s voice sounds like gravel in a box.

“Yes,” Peter moans, “yes.”

And then Tony is swooping back up to kiss him and Peter’s hard, he didn’t even know he could get going again so quickly. Tony kisses him and reaches down to rub Peter through his sweatpants and _oh_ \- if this isn’t better than anything Peter could have imagined in his wildest fucking dreams.

A break in the kiss when they both gasp for air and Tony pressing down on his dick especially hard has Peter saying “Oh, _Mr. Stark_ ,” high and breathless like a swooning heroine from a Victorian romance-

Tony’s hands come off him all at once.

“God what am I-what am I doing-”

He pushes Peter back lightly, no real force behind it, but it still feels like being hit.

“No Mr. Stark, it’s fine it’s all fine-” Peter says, soothing.

“Jesus.”

Tony shrinks away from him. He looks wrecked, hair standing up on end, eyes red. His mouth is swollen and he’s pink, flushed and breathing hard.

“Don’t, don’t even,” he snaps. “Do you know how wrong this is? Christ-” He scrubs a hand over his face.

“I’m like, thirty years older than you, this is just beyond-”

“I’m an adult,” Peter says, trying not to sound petulant and failing.

Mr. Stark laughs abruptly. “Barely! Barely! And since when has only eighteen been an adult?”

“It’s legal-”

“Oh yeah, well you’ve convinced me, let’s just go at it then! Christ kid, I’ve known you since you were fifteen!”

“Well I’ve-” It’s Peter’s turn to flush. “-I’ve wanted you since then.”

It’s not exactly true but once he’s said it he feels it in his bones. Wanting Mr. Stark is so big he can’t imagine his life before the familiar ache.

Tony looks like he’s slapped him. “Wha-was that-was that supposed to make me feel better? Just to be clear. Because it actually makes me feel much much worse, thanks Peter-”

He must remember the last time he said Peter’s name because he clams up and goes, if possible, redder.

He puts both hands over his face.

“Just- just get out, okay?”

Peter reaches out and touches his hip and he flinches.

“Don’t- Peter- I said-”

But Peter just pulls his hands away and drapes himself over Tony. He throws his arms around Tony’s shoulders and holds on. Their hips brush and connect, and Stark’s half hard cock throbs.

It goes through Peter like an electric shock. God bless sweatpants.  Peter nuzzles into Tony’s neck and drags his nose up, grazing his lips over Tony’s cheek. He takes Mr. Stark’s face in his hands.

“Don’t- don’t-”

Tony’s eyelashes are black ellipses against the hollows of his eyes. His lips are wet.

Peter kisses him and Tony groans into the kiss like his heart is breaking. They’re kissing again and Peter bites his lip and Mr. Stark slides his tongue against Peter’s and licks over his bottom lip and- “Stop.”

Tony shoves him away.

“Okay? Stop.”

He’s panting. His hands have jumped to his sweatpants and they’re pulling the fabric away from his crotch to relieve the pressure. He maybe doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

He looks embarrassed and put-upon and horny.

“Go Peter, get out of here.”

“Okay, okay,” Peter holds up his hands in mock surrender. There’s a shit eating grin spreading across his face he can’t control.

“One thing though, are you gonna touch yourself after I leave? Just to be clear.”

Tony throws a shirt at him. Peter lingers outside the closet until he hears a muffled moan. 

He ends up vomiting up the entire contents of his stomach, but, all in all, not the worst birthday he's ever had.

The next evening Tony spins him around and shoves him into a supply closet. He tells Peter that what happened can never happen again, that any relationship between them would cross so many boundaries as to be insane, ill-advised-

They end up making out for an hour before Tony stalks out and presumably heads straight into a cold shower.

Peter lays on his bed with his fingertips pressed to his lips for a long time. He's not worried. They've got time.

After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day. 

 

_fin_

 


End file.
